And the broken
by yeyavailability
Summary: When his head splattered in half against the doorway arch, Bakura laughed. Contains disturbing scenes.
1. and the abused

Started out as the beginnig of a comic I really wanted to draw but was never able to get the beginning of. Now that I've thought of it I realize I don't have enough patience to draw it, so I'll convert all the characters and their personalities to somewhat fit this. Bakura is still a sadistic bastard, though.

Will probably be a side writer's block project or something until I finish updating Line, which please do not hurt me I am working on.

This is a prologue and like all other prologues will probably be confusing to you, so ask if you don't get it.

* * *

_And the abused;_

* * *

"Fucking slut."

Nine-year old Bakura smirked at the cry that emitted from the other boy's lips as he flew against the wall. There were tiny scratches on his skin, on his eyelids; Bakura sat back, and laughed.

-

Bakura bit his lips and kept quiet. _This doesn't hurt, this doesn't hurt, this doesn't hurt…_he repeated to himself. The man kicked a side of his ribs, and he cried as his mouth flew open in a scream.

"Stupid…"

Bakura curled up on his side. He knew he wasn't supposed to, but he couldn't help it. He wanted himself to stop, because everything that was happening was his fault and this is how he needs to pay.

His thoughts went blank as he was thrown over to his stomach. His side bended as he connected with the floor, a sickening crack and a white soar of pain searing around him. He shrieked, tears dry at the corners of his eyes.

"Fucking piece of shit! Can't even take one kick?"

It hurt to speak. Bakura spoke anyways, because he knew that if he didn't now he would never be able to again later. "S-sorry…father…"

He gasped as another kick landed to the same side, letting out a blood curling scream. _It's not broken it's not,_ his mind screamed back at him, _it doesn't hurt, it doesn't hurt…_

-

Thirteen-year old Bakura laughed, drawing back his fists to throw another punch. Malik cowered against the wall, his hands drawn up to protect his face, which Bakura did not care to ruin. Making people uglier wasn't what he was doing this for.

When his fist landed, Malik screamed. Blood dripped out the corner of his lips, and now that his arms had thrown to nurse his stomach Bakura could see it clearly.

"Fucking bitch," he growled. He hated people like this, people who were so _weak_ and stupid and won't stand up for themselves. Pretending they're completely fine and it doesn't hurt at all... "Can't even take a few hits?"

"S-sorry…" Malik whimpered, gasping and doubling over when Bakura punched him again in the stomach.

"Stupid piece of shit," he snarled, hands closing around Malik's neck.

Suddenly, there was a faint noise at the end of the hall. Footsteps drew closer, then a pair, and all too soon Bakura was looking into three shocked pairs of eyes—the principle, a teacher, and a familiar, angry face.

-

Bakura's body was convulsing on the floor.

His eyes fluttered open slowly. His head ached and he couldn't stand, but if he strained and did it carefully he was able to sit up. Suddenly there were soft lips against his cheeks. _…Mother…?_ Finally steadying his vision, he turned to kiss back.

The lips were gone. Bakura snapped around, trying to find where they had gone. "Mother?" he called, panic seeping rapidly into his chest.

"Happy birthday, Bakura," a voice that was definitely _not_ his mother replied.

Held by her hair in his father's hands was his mother's head.

Bakura screamed.

Five minutes later, his mouth was full and he couldn't speak, didn't want to move his tongue. "Is that all you can take?" he heard. Footsteps came closer, but all he could fear was himself and his mother's blood in his mouth. "Can't drink even a tiny bit more?"

Bakura nodded slowly, red liquid swirling around his tongue as he moved. He wanted to spit it out, spit it on his father's face and mix her blood with his, but she didn't deserve that.

"Fucking bitch." A hand lifted his chin, and Bakura did not clench his throat. "Drink it all…"

The blood flowed down and lower and Bakura could feel it inside him, sickening and horrible and making him somewhat happier. His mother's blood was safe.

-

Fifteen-year old Bakura threw harsh punches.

Ryou hit the wall. His head was throbbing and there were purple-black bruises on his arms. His legs were crippled against the floor, unable to stand. The world around him was silent as Ryou lay uselessly on the ground, breathing hard. _Maybe he left…_

Then there were hum. There were footsteps, dragging slowly across the ground, accompanied with something akin to splattering. Ryou could barely lift his head, but with his heart pounding in his chest, he clutched onto the wall and looked.

"Happy birthday, Ryou."

Cradled in Bakura's arms was half of Yugi Mouto's body.

When Ryou walked home, he could still taste the blood around his tongue.

* * *

And the abused

* * *

Please don't make me beg for opinions. Good start, bad start, so very confused? Should I continue or leave it?


	2. and the forgotten

Something happened about two days ago that solved the issue of my life, no sarcasm intended. I'm halfway done Line though I've finally been able to spend two days without any inner turmoil crap, if anyone's following that—which means I'll miss being depressed since I won't be able to write real emotions, I'll just be making it up from vague experiences.

Assuming you've skipped that paragraph above, let me insert two plugs:

www. freewebs. com / florencespread

Without the spaces. And for anyone who loves the abridged series, a role play:

community. livejournal. com / ygotasrpg /

Go there only after you've read this to make yourself feel better, if you're a queasy person.

* * *

_And the forgotten;_

* * *

_Yugi Mouto._

When Bakura woke up, he was in the hospital.

There was no one else in the room but a constant, faint beeping that rang in his ears. Bakura stared blankly towards the ceiling, unable to understand. _The evidence…I've burned it…? Have I?_

The police would surely find out. The police, they would find the half of Mouto's body like they found the rot and ashes of his mother's head, her mouth open and eyes hollow as she dissolved into the flames. It had been nighttime, and the scene had been _beautiful_. Bakura wondered if he had given the boy the same treatment, if he'd spread his remains into the soil of his father's garden right below the window of his bedroom. He had to have a somewhat softer landing if he were to be pushed out the window, after all…

"Bakura?"

There was someone heading towards him, someone in white. There was a cap on the person's head, white and lined like—

"Do you know what day it is?"

The person—the women—she was sitting on the edge of his bed. _Bed?_ He realized he was laying down, arms limp by his sides. _Vulnerable—I have to stand—_

"Bakura?"

Bakura looked slowly at the nurse. He could see the pen in her hands and the light of the ceiling lamps, bright and glowing like the buckle of the belt before it hit him. He turned his gaze to the clipboard held so weakly in her hands, and knew through blurry sight that she wouldn't beat him with it. "…June," he answered. His throat was raw and his voice cracked, and he felt as if he hasn't spoken in years.

The nurse scribbled something onto the papers quickly, and her eyes did not return to him as she spoke. "How about the day and the year?"

Bakura just wanted her to leave. He never bothered to give anyone else his time, not if his father wasn't around, but if he closed his eyes and just listened to the hum of the machines, he could pretend her voice was lighter through the background noise and she'd be holding beer in her hands, not a pen. _Just forget anyone else is hurting…_

"Do you remember?"

"I haven't lost my memory," Bakura snapped, expression twisting for a moment when talking hurt his throat. The nurse was silent for a moment.

"…Open your eyes, Bakura," she said. When he didn't, she sighed and pressed beside a needle in his arm. Bakura gasped, pain shooting up his arm and spreading, eyes flying open. He was panting when he finally managed to glare at the nurse, however weakly.

She was looking at the clipboard. "You're two months behind, for not losing your memory," she said as she continued scribbling onto the papers. "Do you know how old you are?"

"Fifteen," Bakura scowled, the pain finally diminishing. Her hands paused.

When she resumed again, her free hand was reaching an intercom on the wall beside his head. "Please call the neurology department…"

A feeling wave of confusion washed over him. _Neurology…_he knew that word. He'd studied it, at some point…but he can't remember what it means at all. Did he even take science this year? Father didn't think it was important, not until—

"Yes," a muffled voice was saying. "His memory is…"

Bakura frowned as the voices faded until he couldn't hear anything at all. Judging by the tone of what he had heard, though, there must have been something wrong with his memory. He could remember everything so clearly, closing his eyes—Yugi's head splattering against the wall, his wide eyes open and hollow as the blood formed beneath his dying body—everything had been silent, and Bakura had heard himself laughing—he could remember Ryou, the stupid boy, he was walking home and he'd been so happy and perfect and beautiful—

"Son?"

Bakura jolted. His eyes snapped open immediately, and just when the blinding light started to seep into his vision, there was a form looming over him.

"Bakura?"

—_it took three weeks to realize she was dead and two more to find the decay of her headless corpse—drink it all, her blood—_

—_"Neurology," the teacher was saying, "the study of memory loss…" but Bakura was too busy trying to hide his reddened arms in the third year uniform and wondering who's blood he would get for his belated birthday—_

"Bakura!"

"…Father," Bakura said slowly. He could barely hear his own voice, and cracked and dry as it was he probably hadn't emitted more than a croak.

His father's hand rose. Bakura's eyes followed its path as it stopped—then, squeezing shut his eyes, he was more than surprised to feel no more than a gentle scrape along the hairline of his forehead.

Bakura held his breath. His father was stroking his hair.

There was a knot tangling the strands, and suddenly Bakura could feel a harsh clenching of his father's hand around his scalp. His vision spun and his eyelids fluttered, but as he clenched the bed sheets to divert the pain, he knew everything was fine. It was the video cameras in the room, he reasoned to himself.

"I take it you don't remember your birthday?"

Bakura froze. His breath was stuck in his throat and suddenly he was aware of just how easy it was for his father to beat him right here, hooked up on only medical equipment and a thin white sheet to cover his bruises. _I remember,_ he wanted to say, but by the way his father's eyes were watching he didn't seem to be thinking about his wife.

—_third year uniform—his arms, they weren't—just red and not purple or green, not the day after or the one after that—_

Slowly, cautiously, Bakura shook his head, keeping still.

The smile that spread across his father's cheeks was frightening in its sincerity.

"Good," he whispered, almost lovingly.

—_"That's a good boy, Bakura…"_

* * *

And the forgotten

* * *

I hope everyone understands why Bakura randomly thought Ryou was 'beautiful' from the end, or maybe that was too vague but it was the desired effect. And about the third year thing: I'm using Ryou's birthday, which is in September second, as a mark for Bakura's own. Since school starts in September after the second (at least where I live) in high school, he would be newly sixteen.

Review because reviews motivate update speed?


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